Bedridden
by Mowee
Summary: Grantaire is ill, and muses about his sister.


[Note: I was reading a Mary Sue about R and his Sister Who Died Young, and ended up doing this for some reason I cannot fathom. Not edited very well, and it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, so I'm not very enthusiastic about it. Much annoyance at ff.net, which isn't letting me center things.]

Lying here in utter silence, I am reminded of you, little Faye. I am sick enough that I cannot rise, and they keep me far from my drink; unable to entertain the company of one Green Fairy, I am forced to contemplate the Grey one.

I loved you. Once. Looking back, I wonder why I ever did … you were a bony little girl, with pointy elbows and pointy knees, and a head of matted brown hair. Ugliness must have run in the family, but I loved you even so. You had this way of whining that I thought precious at the time … I remember your high, harsh voice even now, the type that warns of tears to come if one's wishes are not obeyed. How could I forget it? I spent my every waking hour in your presence.

And maman gave you everything you wanted – everything that she could supply, that is. We never were rich. Yet amidst all the hardships we did have to face, you, little Faye, lived like a princess. Ordering me about, you'd smile and flatter me, and I would obey with a smile and gift of flattery in return. You were the one person in the world who had ever bestowed a compliment upon me, and I cherished you for that. My ugly little sister, and her ugly older brother, each unable to live without the other; we were the perfect pair.

I remember how you hated maman and papa, despite their efforts to spoil you. They loved you and hated me … I had reason to hate them back, but you? I suppose they went overboard in their affections, and you, self-centered brat that you were, despised them in the way a slave master despises his slaves.

I, on the other hand, talked to you, and occasionally refused you things. Never mind the fact that I ended up granting you your every wish in the end – but there was none of that blind worshipping, so you were pleased with me. We worked as a team, you commanding and me following, each loving the other. And thus, for eleven years after you learned how to talk, we lived.

Then you fell ill. I despaired, but the doctor said it was not serious, and that you would recover with proper treatment. _With proper treatment _– but stubborn Faye would have none of that, thinking herself above those sickly fools who needed help from outside sources. Stubborn Faye would heal herself, thank you very much. But no, you didn't heal; each day your condition worsened, and ha! what a pathetic figure you looked! Prostrate, pale, your face uglier than ever with its dark shadows, you were already coughing blood by the time you consented to any type of treatment. But it was too late.

I was broken for years afterward, for you were the only one I had ever been close to. I was a sixteen-year-old who never had enough conviction to try hard in anything – so I fell. Disappointed in my own failures, I hated myself, and wondered why anyone but my dear little sister could like me in the slightest. As a result of this, any friends I had slowly drifted away from me, leaving me alone.

It was then that I met the bottle. Yes, the liquor helped … I was able to bury my feelings underneath the burning drink, along with my thoughts and my sanity. It was bliss for me – if you could call it that. But because sobriety could not compare, I drowned myself in the wine, not allowing myself to go too long without it. One single returned memory would awaken an irrational fear in me; fear that I would let the despair take me again, let the fact sink in that I was alone, that no one cared whether I was dead or not, that I would never go forward in my miserable existence. The liquor held my life.

But somewhere beneath all the layers of drunkenness, a memory of you did survive. The love I had felt for my "dear sister" now seemed only superficial, and I could only remember the way she ordered me around and got what she wanted, the way I acted as a tame pet to her for eleven years of my life. My self-hatred deepened, for the weakness, for everything. And I began to hate you as well, for turning me into the mindless fool I had become.

It was nothing worth notice when a group of young rebels – around my age – began to meet in the back room of a café. I liked to watch them, albeit with a general air of indifference – they wanted to overthrow the government. I had to admit, they were amusing. But then another man joined them; firm, demanding, he brought a sort of order into their meetings. His speeches were always delivered with a tone of such overpowering faith that I began to see a little of what he imagined. It was all so new to me, who had never believed in anything but my little Faye. It's not to say that the other men were not also serious about their cause – because yes, of course they were – just none so completely as that blond youth.

For a week or so subsequent to his arrival, I put away my bottle; I had found someone new to believe in. Something of that personality drew me to him, and this time, I loved not because I would benefit, but because what I saw in him was beautiful. No matter – not much time passed before I was forced back into the embrace of my absinthe. The man hated me, scorned me, treated me like an unrelenting weed, bent on tearing down the flower that was he.

…What a pitiful creature I am! Hating the only person who ever loved me, and loving the one who hates me the most. But I won't allow myself to wallow in remembrance anymore, lest the memories consume me. No faithful mistress to save me now, alas.


End file.
